


I Want To Know What We Do With the Dead Things We Carry

by ajarofgoodthings



Series: the future is forgiven [2]
Category: Reign (TV), The Tudors
Genre: Crossover, F/M, Father/Daughter Relationships, Modern AU, Relationship Beginnings, Timeline Fuckery, pseudo father relationships
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-05
Updated: 2015-11-05
Packaged: 2018-04-30 02:24:26
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,434
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5146811
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ajarofgoodthings/pseuds/ajarofgoodthings
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A prequel to 'Of Bulldogs and Babies' but it can be read before, after, or not at all.</p><p>Inspired by a response to a comment; 'I would love to explore more of this world and these characters' back stories. Like why are Henry and Mary close, and when does Kenna get her baby and where is Francis in all of this??'</p><p>Well, here's an answer to the first question.</p>
            </blockquote>





	I Want To Know What We Do With the Dead Things We Carry

**Author's Note:**

  * For [lorarawr](https://archiveofourown.org/users/lorarawr/gifts).



> **EDITED FOR THE SAKE OF TIMELINES**

**2005.**

 

"Charles,"

 

The voice is immediately identifiable and Charles realizes a moment too late that he's scowled in response to it, meeting the uncomfortably polite smile of Wolsey with what is undoubtedly a give-away grimace. He schools himself the best he can into what is a hopefully more neutral expression, tucking the flex of his fingers behind his back.

 

"Cardinal," he returns, and sounds gruff even to himself, taking in the suit the other man wears, obviously expensive despite the perfectly tailored simplicity of the black fabric and red tie - silk, Charles assumes.

 

"Found yourself unoccupied? What an occurrence," he remarks, smirking and all infuriating condescension, and Charles grits his teeth.

 

"I'm waiting for the King -" this is obvious, he thinks, given his position outside the antechamber doors. "He sent for me last night. Wants to spend the day sporting with myself and Compton," he adds, immediately irritated with his own ingrained habit of giving the other man explanations.

 

"None of you have business?" Wolsey asks, and Charles clenches his fingers into his palm, fist curled hard into the center of his back. He's never been as good at the quick wordplay of court as many others; the King's affection for him came because of it, Henry claims - his blunt honesty and lack of love for games over syllables, but in moments like these it faults him. It has since he was inducted as a Duke, his wit falling short under the drive of men who've been at it much longer than him. "Ah, to be young and free to your own devices. I miss it terribly," and before Charles can stumble over a response that will undoubtedly be nowhere near as expertly veiled as Wolsey's him, the doors open and out presses the King, crown light and bright about his temples. Automatically, both Charles and Wolsey drop into bows, and when they lift it's Charles that has Henry's hand on his shoulder, warm and welcoming.

 

"Gentlemen," he greets, squeezing Charles' shoulder once but turning his attention to Wolsey. "And how are you this fine morning, Cardinal?" He asks, drops his hand; "Have you need of me? I was off to visit my Queen and the girls before I spend the day with Suffolk and Compton, preferably on the court," he gives, and Wolsey smiles, less snake-like than had been directed at Charles himself but sleazy all the same.

 

"No, Your Majesty; I'm only here in search of Mr. Pace, please, enjoy your day," he says, and bows deep and long before skulking off, slimy as he's always been.

 

"I hate that man," Charles mutters once he's out of earshot, and Henry laughs as he turns to him, clapping him on the collar again and pulling him in to drop his arm around his shoulders.

 

"He's a brilliant, efficient man that allows me more free time than any Prince in Europe," he placates, and Charles grits his jaw but nods his ascension as they leave the public chamber.

 

"Still, the Queen hates him as well," he adds, and Henry smirks a little more.

 

"I bury half that free time between the Queen's legs, she ought to be thankful of the Cardinal," he gives, and at this Charles breaks into a real smile, following the younger man's chuckle.

 

"The other half between Lady Mary Carey's,"

 

"Please, Charles, I won't be chastised for my transgressions by the Whore of Babylon himself," Henry scolds, aiming a barely-dodged cuff at Charles' head, who breaks into loud laughter.

 

The rest of the walk to the Queen's rooms is continued in much the same manner and by the time their presence is announced Charles' ear has been smacked bright red, enough that Katherine raises an eyebrow at them both when they enter the room.

 

"Good morning, sweetheart," Henry greets, crossing to her while she tosses a look of scolding curiosity at Charles, who ducks his head, then turning her attention to her husband for a chaste, but obviously firm, kiss on the lips. "Sleep well?"

 

"You know I didn't," comes the tease, obviously intended to be under her breath, but Charles smirks a little when he hears it nonetheless, making himself look disengaged from the moment of affection by busying himself with gesturing for a cup of coffee for himself and the King both. The lady's gaze lingers a little long on his lips as she curtseys, and Charles finds himself smiling at her, eyes drifting to her ass as she walks away.

He files the glance away for later and crosses to the couple as they part from their embrace, dropping a bow low and deep to Katherine and coming up to kiss her proffered cheek. "All well, Your Majesty?" He asks, earns a smile at the question.

 

"Yes, what are you up to, my dear?" Henry adds from where he stands behind her at her desk, hands on her shoulders.

 

"Busying myself while I wait for the girls. I've taken Mary out of her lessons for the morning to enjoy the sun with myself and Little Mary outside," she explains, then gestures to her computer. "And I've just written Charles,"

 

"And how is His Majesty, our nephew?"

 

"Well; young, headstrong. He sends his love to Your Majesty and Little Mary, and dodges all questions of his rumoured mistress," at this, Henry laughs a little, though Charles feels himself flush with vague guilty embarrassment.

 

"As you said my dear; he's young," Henry commends, thumb grazing the base of his wife's jaw. "What of this taking Mary out of lessons, then? The last time I tried to do so you practically demanded my head," he pushes, changing the subject with ease, and Charles grins with the memory of Henry, ducking scolded as a boy, when he'd been caught taking Mary from her tutor to put her on a horse. Mary, of course, had supported him in full - but her aunt had disapproved quite loudly, and she grins a little guiltily now.

 

"It's to be the first day she can be out without a sweater this year; and as you said at the time, there's some things that cannot be learnt at a desk," as though to emphasize the point, the girl in question is announced, her title followed quickly by that of her young cousin and the doors open on the ten year old, running with abandon to her Aunt and Uncle while their daughter follows more slowly behind on unsteady feet.

 

"Good morning!" Mary gives in excitement, mimicked to the best of her ability by Little Mary, who's more giggles than syllables. Katherine pushes up from her chair to cross to them both, kissing her niece on the forehead as she pulls her little daughter into her embrace.

 

"Good morning, my girls," she gives back, and Charles settles on the couch Henry gestures to as the servant sets their coffees down, happy to bear witness to the familial interaction.

 

"Papa! Papa!" Comes from Little Mary, secure in her mother's arms but reaching for her father. He grins indulgently at his daughter, the picture of Katherine but lit with his own bright blue eyes, and settles her against his hip.

 

"Hello, Pearl of my World," he greets, kissing her full on the cheek and earning another spout of giggles. Mary stays at her Aunt's side, fingers securely in hers despite Katherine's attention being on her husband and daughter, and Charles feels a pang in his chest at the sight of it.

 

Charles has never met parents as fierce as the King and Queen, and he understands why; before Little Mary, there was Prince Henry. The baby boy had been born quick enough after their marriage to cause conspiracy, but he'd been welcomed nonetheless, proof of the King and Queen's virility as a couple, of the luck King Henry VIII was sure to be blessed with - but the tiny Prince had died just after reaching three months. The physicians didn't know why; 'Sometimes, it happens' they'd said; 'Sudden Infant Death Syndrome' - and though the King and Queen had quickly conceived again, they'd miscarried. Then came Little Mary, the only of their children to survive both the womb and infancy, and even at that, she's been an ill girl. She's much more robust now than she was a birth; rosy cheeks, the jawline she inherited from her mother filled out with baby fat - but they still worry, and validly so; but Mary, with eight years on her cousin, is often left in the dust. Her own mother remains in Scotland, reigning as Regent, and despite frequent phone calls and constant letters, Charles thinks she must feel as good as an orphan, her mother as physically distant as her decade-dead father is, and definitively left out of interactions like so between the tiny family.

 

Even so, she's generally much brighter in them than she is now; much louder, inserting herself into the unit with ease. It's disconcerting to see her so quiet, standing on the edge with her fingers loosely gripping her Aunt's, and the couple seem to notice it themselves, even if after Charles does.

 

"Good morning, Mary," Henry says, still holding his daughter tight as he kneels to his niece's level.

 

Disturbingly, the little girl curtseys.

 

"Good morning, Your Majesty," she says, proper and formal as she's been trained to be since birth - and it's uncomfortable and odd and Charles feels sick at the sight. Henry visibly checks, shrinking back like he's taken a blow, and collects himself enough to give the girl a quick, short smile before pressing another kiss to his daughter's cheek and setting her on her feet.

 

"Lady Bryan, please bring the girls to breakfast, I'll be there in a moment," the Queen says, and the Governess comes forward to scoop up her youngest charge and catch the hand of the second, leading them both out with a dip of a bow.

 

"What on earth was that?" Henry asks the moment the door is closed, turning to his wife with wide eyes, and she gives a sigh, pressing her forefinger and thumb to the bridge of her nose.

 

"In your last call to your sister, you mentioned that Mary had taken to calling you Papa," she says, and Charles' brow knits as Henry's does, both confused; it was an innocent enough endearment, and a valid one; Henry was practically her father, in all truth - and Henry had been quite pleased charmed by the occurrence. "Apparently, in their goodnight ring last night, Margaret told her off rather pointedly about it; insisted that she know her place - you're her Uncle, the King of England, the King of a foreign country, not her father. She demanded that Mary learn her place as well as yours," she explains, and Henry bristles, jaw locking sharply.

 

"The girl is ten."

 

"Yes, that's what I said; but she's also been Queen since she was a week old - at least, that was your sister's insistence when I spoke to her of it this morning," again, Katherine sighs; "I should have warned you, darling, I'm sorry."

 

Henry dismisses the apology with a wave of the hand, looking to his feet in thought.

 

"Won't do," he says finally, lifts his head again. "I'll break my fast with the three of you, and spend the morning as well - I'll speak to Mary; she can call me as she wants; Father, even, if she'd like. And I'll speak to Margaret. I may be a foreign King, but she has no right to instill a sense of fear in the girl because of it; how dare she imply that I'll ever be a threat to my own blood?" He decides aloud, in a tone that leaves no room for argument, and turns to Charles. "Apologies, Your Grace, for the day; family calls, have a message sent to Compton as well,"

 

"Of course, Your Majesty; perhaps I'll spend the day with my family myself," Charles gives, setting down his barely-begun coffee and standing from the couch to bow. Henry nods, offers his arm to his Queen to leave, and Charles pulls out his phone to call his wife.

 

**2010.**

 

"Mary, Queen of Scotland!" Is announced seconds before the girl in question enters sharply through the open door, beelining for the seat next to her Uncle and collapsing dramatically.

 

Charles can't help his laugh, and it earns him a teenaged glare, which makes him only laugh harder.

 

"Rough day, sweetheart?" Henry asks, and Charles can see that he's barely suppressing a grin, though doing far better at it than Charles himself is.

 

"He's so very  _boring_ , Uncle," she huffs heavily, lifting and dropping her arms to add effect. She looks every inch the grumpy Monarch when she does so; dressed sweetly in a loose, pastel coloured blouse and jeans, signet ring on her right hand pinky and accompanied by the grand bethrothal ring on her left ring finger, she wears a scowl and crosses her arms unhappily over chest.

 

"Who, then?" Charles prompts, earning another glare, because she knows she's being teased. Francis, the French Heir Apparent and Mary's betrothed since she was five, is a current guest of the King in an attempt to foster a relationship between the young fiancees. Charles can't find himself surprised that it's going quite terribly.

 

"The  _Dauphin_ ," she says with a grimace, lips downturned. Charles laughs again. "He's spoilt! And sheltered! And _thirteen_! There's nothing interesting about him; all he has to talk about is France, and the good of France, and he's not even King yet,"

 

Her ladies, apparently left behind in her rush to her Uncle's rooms, enter with respective bows as she speaks and Henry gestures easily for them to sit. The girls have been raised in England alongside Mary since they were children, and scatter comfortably in the room. Kenna, the eldest save Greer at seventeen, comes to sit next to Charles without looking at him, settling so her foot rests against his ankle under the table. He glances at her, and she refuses to look back, so he drains the last of his scotch, biting on the burn and giving a cough that earns him a kick. She still doesn't look at him, though.

 

"Mary is right, Your Majesty; Francis is terribly uninteresting," Kenna offers; "I far prefer his brother, Sebastian," at this, she gives the girls a meaningful glance, and there's a shift as they all do their best not to look at each other. Charles feels himself flush with irritated jealousy, thinking of the Prince's elder bastard brother, nineteen and bearing sharp blue eyes under dark hair. He's trouble, and Charles knows it; sees too much of himself in the boy that's been trying to get Kenna on his arm for the length of the visit. Greer tuts at her friend, disapproving.

 

"Kenna, please; His Grace is lovely - he's smart and sweet and -"

 

"Boring," Kenna reiterates, and Henry breaks into his own laugh. "He won't even kiss Mary," she adds, as though it's the greatest of offenses, and Henry's laugh turns into a guffaw when Mary sits up, stern and blushing.

 

"Kenna!"

 

"Well, he won't!"

 

"You're both young, yet," Henry intercedes; "You've got years to be friends,"

 

"I don't want to be  _friends_ ," Mary drawls, heavy and put upon; "I don't want to be  _friends_  with my husband, I want to be in  _love_ ," she goes on, and there's a general nod of agreement from the other girls. "You and Aunt Katherine were in love when  _you_  got married," at this, Henry stiffens, only slightly, before he nods.

 

"We were," he agrees, "But I also married her for an alliance with Spain; your marriage to Francis will create an alliance with France, and your children will rule both Scotland and France, a combined crown protected by their Uncle doing his duty by Spain," he says, and the fight goes out of her shoulders a little, posture depressing.

 

" _Papa_ ," she pleads softly, and Henry bends to catch the back of her head with his hand, pulling her in to rest their foreheads together. It's a moment of quiet, and Charles averts his eyes as the girls do, busying themselves together over something. Kenna keeps her gaze definitively on the pair, however, as Charles finds his own on her - specifically, on the loose strand of hair curling at her temple, golden and fallen free of the waves she's pulled it an updo he's sure is deceivingly simple.

 

He doesn't think before he does it - leans out to tuck the lock back behind her ear, and she jerks, attention flicking to him. His hand lingers a little long, fingertips on her cheekbone, high and bronze, and then drops back to his own lap. She watches him unwaveringly; eyes brown and deep and dark, and he takes a slow breath under her gaze, watches her mimic it in the hard rise and fall of her chest, and then the corner of her lip turns up in a flick of a smile, and he offers his own - wider and more obvious, and winks.

 

At that, she looks back to the pair, her smirk badly hidden, and runs the side of her foot up the length of his calf.

 

"Yes, Papa," Mary concedes finally, though she's still obviously unhappy about it as Henry pulls away, pressing a final kiss to her forehead and sitting back again.

 

"Charles, let's have another drink," he gives, shifting to sit up a little and offer the gaggle of girls he's known for the better part of most of their lives a conspiratorial grin. "A little for each of us, I think; sounds like our ladies have had a  _very_  long day," he says, and there's laughter and smiles and when Charles sits back down - after having poured a round of scotch for them all, a little more for the older girls, Greer and Kenna and Mary and watering down Lola and Aylee's - Kenna's hand slips into his under the table.

 

**2011.**

 

Mary's birthday banquet is, in one word, extravagant. Not only is she turning sixteen, and so coming of age to control her crown in her own right, but the banquet is an apology - Henry's attempt to keep her affection by showering her in money; it's not a tactic he often used to fall back to, resenting the use of it from his father in his own childhood, but in the wake of both his niece and daughter expressing their extreme distaste for his latest stunts, he's fallen to it in full force.

 

The halls of Hampton Court are decked in fairy lights; the vast majority are white and twinkling, but Mary's favourite colours are scattered in red and purple as well. There are flowers everywhere - lilies and tulips of all colours. The food itself is simple, Mary's favourites, but served grandly on the finest dishes in the King's retinue and set on tables covered in gold cloth embroidered in roses. It's beautiful, breathtakingly so, and at the Head table sits Mary herself, to the right of the King. Going against status, the eight year old Princess Mary sits to her cousin's right instead of next to her mother, and Charles cannot help but see the similarities between the girls.

 

There is nothing common in their faces; despite being raised as sisters, they stand obviously as cousins; the Princess' blue eyes versus her cousin's brown - both sharp jawed, but with a round face beside a long one, the younger's hair shaded a considerably lighter brown, lit with red, against the young Queen's almost-black. Besides that, there are eight years between them. Still, they hold themselves much the same; duck their head in the same manner, smile in the same full way (though the elder shows her teeth, and Charles cannot help thinking of the way an animal will snarl before it strikes) and their cheeks bear the same pretty blush as they laugh, Mary's eyes sparkling traitorously while her cousin tries to hide her young laugh at something (assumingly inappropriate) she's said.

 

Next to the portrait of partners in crime sits a definitively different one - Henry sits alone, despite being in the center of them all. One hand rests on the arm of his chair, fingers tapping incessantly, and the other rests knuckles to the base of his chin as he surveys the crowd of guests - nobles from England and Scotland and even the French Ambassador. Katherine, next to him, is the picture of quite grace she has always been - shoots of silver light auburn hair, tell tale signs of aging carving her face; she's only thirty one, but Charles knows the picture of defined dignity next to the still young virility of the King is not an image Henry wants to cultivate. They don't interact; instead, Katherine speaks quietly with Margaret, her sister in law, and Charles sees the soft smile light on Henry's lips when he finds the face he's been looking for.

 

Charles follows his King's gaze to see Anne Boleyn, seated unsurprisingly next to Kenna, near the Head table. She seems to become aware of the King's eyes on her and shifts out of her conversation with the other woman, looking up to find Henry's eyes. She gives him back her own smile, a bigger one, unashamed and warm, and he ducks his head in acknowledgement of her, tracing his lip with the flat of his thumb. He's too busy watching the King to see what Anne does, but then Henry's laughing and it's pulling the attention of the Queen and by the time Charles looks away Anne's wrapped back up in her conversation with Kenna.

 

"Ladies," he greets as he approaches them, earning a 'Your Grace' from them both as they turn. "Enjoying yourselves?"

 

"Terribly," Anne responds before Kenna can, and the other girl just smiles her agreement, absolute adoration in her eyes as she looks at the older woman.

 

It's completely infuriating.

 

"I hope I've not interrupted anything?" He asks, after giving Anne the courtier's smile he's perfected in the last decade, which she politely, annoyingly, returns.

 

"Not at all, Your Grace; Anne was just telling me about her sister - Lady Mary Carey's - children; adorable, both of them," Kenna says, smiling.

 

"Much like the King was at their age, according to all photos and my own memory. They do him proud," he replies because he cannot help it - the babies were never acknowledged, but their status as royal bastards was not a secret despite carrying their mother's husband's name, and it was a fact the Boleyns had worn proudly until Henry had begun to express an interest in Anne; it's the 21st Century, but fucking the father of your sister's bastard children is still frowned upon, and Charles knows it as well as Anne. Kenna does exactly that at the words, frowning unhappily with him even as Anne grins brightly.

 

"They do," she agrees, sits straighter; "Henry is the very image of the King as a child; the bright blue eyes, the golden hair, though Mary and I both suspect it will darken as his father's did as he gets older. Catherine's always been darker, though; in fact, Mary's always said she looks like me. I've always found her far more beautiful than anything I've seen in the mirror, but of course, I take my role as doting Aunt very seriously," she gives pleasantly, all smiles and ease; "Your wife knows much of the role with her constant spoiling of the Princess, does she not?" She adds, and Charles' hate for the woman before him boils hot and sticky in the center of his chest.

 

"Well, she  _is_  the Princess of Wales, the only Heir to the Throne; she deserves to be spoiled, wouldn't one say?" Charles contests, unsubtle in his reminder of the King's lack of intention to legitimize either of the Careys in the succession.

 

"Of course," Anne agrees, eyes dark despite her bright smile, and suddenly Kenna's hand is in his.

 

"Dance with me, Charles," she requests, grinning and light but forceful in the way she grips his fingers.

 

"Oh, Kenna, you'd promised your first dance to my poor brother; he's been looking forward to it all evening," Anne teases, leaning to poke Kenna light in the ribs, and Kenna laughs before she ducks in to press a kiss to either of Anne's cheeks.

 

"George is the most eligible bachelor in court; I'm sure he'll have ladies falling over themselves to dance with him - and if not, well, he can wait for me," she says, all bite and bright, and Anne offers the first real laugh she's given since Charles approached before waving them away.

 

Kenna tugs him onto the dance floor, firm and forceful, and there's a light smattering of claps from the head table at their presence - lead by a grinning Mary and followed quickly by Henry, who wears a far more devilish smirk. They both bow to their Sovereigns, and then Charles' attention is complete on his partner, who's got a death grip on his shoulder.

 

"You haven't got to be so cruel," she chastises, sharp and dark, and Charles winces at the nails in his palm.

 

"She's a snake, Kenna,"

 

"She's my  _friend_ ," the girl pushes, "I care for her,"

 

"That doesn't mean  _I_  have to,"

 

" _Charles_ , it's not her fault that they're in love,"

 

"It's not a matter of the heart, it's a matter of state and politics; she's coming between one of the greatest marriages in Europe, brokering to ruin a decade old alliance for the sake of her own ambition,"

 

"The King wants out of the marriage as desperately as Anne wants him out of it,"

 

"And what do you want? You love the Queen; she practically raised you," at this, Kenna glares, daggered and hot.

 

"I'm well aware, Charles, don't guilt me," so he turns her instead, out and then in, catching her around the waist and pulling her flush to his body, warm in a way that has nothing to do with his wife's undoubted glare on him. "But what I want doesn't matter and times are changing. The King feels he needs a male heir -"

 

"You're a subject of a Queen in her own right!"

 

"I  _know_ ," she cuts again, follows the twist of his hand on her waist with her hips automatically, so used to each other's quirks when they dance as they are. "But that doesn't  _matter_ ; do you think Henry is likely to ask my opinion? Or consider Mary's? His father had two boys, so Henry could follow after Arthur died. Before that, the Yorks were a continual stream of men; one after another after another - all because of a war begun by a Queen. This is England, not Scotland - do you genuinely think he'll ever be likely to look at the present of another country instead of the past of his own?" And this is why he's in love with her; she's beautiful, of course, always has been, but she's smart, too - she watches and learns and knows and is often if not always infuriatingly right; but his devotion to her cannot be, this time, outweighed by the old steady beat of loyalty to the Queen.

 

"Anne is built on ambition. She's a bitch and a snake, and frankly, a whore."

 

At this, Kenna stops; her feet fall flat on the floor, heels clicking dead on the hardwood.

 

"You would know," she returns, pulls her hands away from him. "Go dance with your wife."

 

**2012.**

 

There is no announcement of the King's niece; there is a shout of an order and a quiet return and then a bang as the door is thrown open and Mary, all teenaged rage and confidence, comes in.

 

"Mary!" The King gives, knocking his seat back as he stands. "I'm in a meeting -"

 

"And you're about to be in a meeting with me. We need to speak; immediately," she says, voice far steadier than Charles would have expected given the way her chest is heaving and her eyes are wild, and his breath stops as he realizes her; Mary stands, steady and unshaken, glaring at her Uncle - and in it Charles can see the girl who's been Queen nearly her entire life, staring down a man who may be her senior, but was raised as a second son, has only recently realized the full grasp of his power. There is a beat, and then another, where no one in the room moves and no one in the room breathes - and then Henry, shockingly, gives, nods and gestures to the Members of Parliament scattered around the table, who share looks and start to stand, collecting their papers. "Not you," Mary snaps, and it takes Charles a moment to realize it's directed at him.

 

"Your Majesty?"

 

"You stay; we have a bone to pick ourselves," she says, hard, and Charles taught this girl to ride a bike, but sinks back into his seat as the room clears.

 

"Speak then, Mary, now you've made a fool of yourself in front of my entire Parliament,"

 

"Me? A fool? I'm not the one who just dismissed Parliament on account of a sixteen year old girl,"

 

" _Speak_ ," Henry snaps, banging his hands flat on the table before him, and Charles flicks his eyes between the pair - Henry bent over the head of the table, hands down for support, Mary with her arms crossed at the foot of it.

 

"You're divorcing the Queen," she starts, and there's a whistle of inhale from Henry.

 

"I'm not divorcing her, there is nothing to end, the farce of a marriage was invalid -"

 

"Don't!" Mary cuts, nearly a shout; "Don't spit the same nonsense at me you use to appease your subjects and the men who kiss your feet; you claim the marriage invalid because she was married to your  _brother_  and  _yet_ , you want to declare the marriage as such so you can marry a woman whose  _sister_  you've already had, who you have two children off of -"

 

"Mary Stafford's children were never acknowledged -"

 

"Her son is the absolute image of you! Don't lie to me, Henry! Don't _fucking_ lie!"

 

Henry lapses into silence, and Charles feels a hot thread of shock in the center of his spine.

 

"You will not speak to me in such a tone, Mary, I am the Head of your House -"

 

"If you were the Head of my House you'd be the King of Scotland!" Mary yells, smacking the table. Again, Henry falls silent, and Mary's panting like she's run a mile. "Don't do this, Uncle."

 

"I need an Heir, Mary,"

 

"You have an Heir,"

 

"I need a  _boy_ ," Henry insists, and Mary's posture shifts up, sharp and strong and distant. Charles can practically feel the hurt radiating off of her.

 

"Hear this, Uncle," she starts, tone low, voice soft, "If you divorce a good woman, the daughter of the two of the greatest monarchs Europe has ever seen, a woman who's done nothing but love you, the woman who's grieved over babies with you, the woman who raised me, the woman who raised your daughter - if you  _disown_ that daughter - so you can marry a woman who's nothing more than the granddaughter of an upstart commoner to satisfy your own lust and get a boy off her - I will leave. I will have my coronation in Scotland, and I will go to France and make good on the promise  _you've_  forced on me since childhood, marry a man I feel nothing for for the sake of my Country, to make good on word _you_ gave - and I will not return to England. If you give them up, you'll lose me, too," she lets out a shaky breath after the words that held strong to their final sentence, and Charles watches her jaw lock.

 

"Mary, I will not be lead by a 16 year old girl," Henry says finally, quietly, shoulders dropping as he does, eyes staying on his niece. "This has nothing to do with you, and I will act on my own will," he continues, and Mary's body lifts opposite his, shoulders back and chin up.

 

"As will I," she responds, turns as though to leave, then check and rounds on Charles. "And _you_ , you will leave my Kenna alone. You're a married man. Go home to your wife, and your son, have another, or don't - you're ruining her prospects, and she deserves better than the half-love you can offer her. As does my Aunt," with this, she shoots another glare at Henry, and then she's gone, leaving them empty in her wake.


End file.
